How to Love a Prince

FOURTEEN

Roselia

“Are you sure we’re staying here, Alistair?”

“Perignon, you asked that for the seventh time.” He muttered, flipping the page of the novel he’s reading.

Currently inside our designated room, I’ve been rolling over the king-sized bed for half an hour now, admiring the lavish chandelier, luxurious interior, and completely out-of-my-reach lifestyle—the only comfort I have here is the soft mattress beneath me.

Alistair, on the other hand, is on the couch, wearing his reading glasses while immersing himself in a mystery thriller novel. To be fair, I did not expect a man like him to be into books.

“Your place is more peaceful that I thought,” I mumbled, lying on my stomach as I watched his eyes continue reading per line of the page.

“Only for a few minutes more.” He answered without lifting his gaze.

There he is again, always a man of a few words. But I learned not to question him anymore. Instead, I just nod along to whatever hints he drops, and just try to keep myself at bay before I trigger him again.

True enough, three knocks on the door caused me to sit properly.

“Come in,” Alistair said.

"Mr. and Mrs. Deveraux. The master requests your presence in the dining hall. Dinner is about to be served."

Alistair gave a curt nod, gently smiling at the respectful maid who dared not lift her gaze at us. "We'll be there shortly. Thank you, Maria."

As soon as the door closed, he turned back to me, his expression all business and formal, quickly making me stand up and fix my white Sunday dress, hoping to mirror his composure.

"This is it, Roselia.” When he mentioned it, I felt a shudder run down my spine because it means danger when he calls me by my name.

“The real audience for today’s final performance is my father, Theron. I want you to be on your best behavior and remember your cues to make sure you won’t be tricked into doing anything stupid. And for God's sake, don't say anything that will make my stepmother's day."

.

.

.

The short walk to the dining hall felt like a march to the gallows. The doors were immense, carved from dark, heavy wood, and as the butler swung them open, a wave of tension washed over me from within.

“Ah, there they are.”

The room was a grand, cavernous space, a long table set with a blinding array of silverware and crystal. Eleanor was already seated, a glass of water in her hand, her posture as rigid and perfect as ever, a soft, pleasant smile on her face.

“This will be the liveliest dinner yet, I can tell.” Damian was on the other side, leaning back in his chair with a bored expression, scrolling on his phone.

Alistair responded with a light chuckle, guiding me by the small of my back until we reached the seats across his step-family.

The moment we sat down, Eleanor's smile widened. "Your wife is lucky to have you, dear," she cooed, her voice like warm honey.

"Fortunately, my husband is still on his way here, or else you may end up having a little talk about time management. That would’ve been an off-putting first impression with your in-laws, isn’t it?" The subtext, a sharp, cold jab at my supposed fragility and their unsaid waiting, was painfully clear.

Alistair, still with that same cool demeanor, spoke up with his hand above mine, showing off his ring on the table.

"Roselia was simply taking a moment to freshen up, Mother. I'm sure we can forgive her for wanting to look her best for her first family dinner." His words were a shield, a subtle retort that both defended me and put me in my place as a trophy wife.

Damian looked up from his phone, a smirk playing on his lips. "She does look great. I especially love the deer-in-the-headlights look. A new trend in the showbiz, perhaps?"

"Please don’t tease. You know how the fairytale about commoners turned princesses works.” I smiled, using the same sugarcoating tactic that makes this entire mansion a disgusting blend of beautiful lies.

Eleanor let out a soft, tinkling laugh that sounded completely devoid of genuine humor. "Oh, such youthful energy! So full of life," she said, her smile not reaching her eyes.

I am still thinking of words to say when Alistair interjected, changing the subject to presume normalcy between everyone. "Mother, what do we have for dinner tonight?"

But before Eleanor could reply, the doors to the dining hall opened again.

“Good evening, Master.” The service maids all lined up in two lines, bowing respectfully while everyone on the table stood up as greeting. I followed them, and the stiffness of the atmosphere when he entered made everything feel worse.

He was older, perhaps in his late fifties, but there was a quiet, unshakeable power in his presence. His hair was silver, his suit impeccably tailored, and his eyes, a steely gray, seemed to miss nothing. He iis Theron Deveraux.

The man who had built this empire. The man who held all the cards. In short: he is Alistair’s—no, everyone’s, target.

He walked with an easy grace that belied his age, his gaze sweeping over the table before finally landing on me. There was a look in his eyes—a mix of curiosity and appraisal—that made my carefully constructed composure begin to c***k.

My heart hammered in my chest, a frantic drumbeat of pure panic.

"Father," Alistair said, his voice respectful but firm. "I'd like you to meet my wife, Roselia."

I stood up, my legs feeling like they were made of jelly, and offered him a nervous smile. I took a step forward, wanting to show my respect. But my foot caught on the edge of the thick, ornamental rug under the dining table. My other foot, a clumsy extension of my panic, fumbled for balance.

“Pft,” I heard Damian let out a small, amused huff.

“Careful, sweetheart,” Eleanor's lips remained curved in a saccharine smile, but her eyes widened, a flicker of pure, unadulterated pleasure in their depths.

With a gasp of mortification, I stumbled forward, my momentum carrying me. I managed to stop myself just short of falling completely, but only by reaching out and grabbing onto the closest, most stable object I could find.

The master’s arm.

The gaze of the family patriarch was now fixed on me, and in that moment, I knew with a dreadful certainty that I had just committed the most spectacular, embarrassing, and irreversible mistake of my life.

Alistair’s going to k*ll me for sure.